


orange is loose and warm and ripples like juice

by FlashMountain



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: A tiny smidge of angst, Fluff, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Slurs, minimal angst, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashMountain/pseuds/FlashMountain
Summary: Billy Hargrove’s curled up on the couch, legs bent under him, head thrown back onto the soft pillows, curls splayed everywhere. He looks- angelic. Bathed in gold, all sharp angels even when he’s too drunk to function. And he has to take a moment, not to think about how his mind’s stuck on Billy and angel, but to catch his fucking breath. He hovers there until the glass in his hand starts to slip from the way his palms are sweating, until Billy opens one blue eye, stares at him all upside down.“Y’just gonna stand there and stare?”, and he sounds out of it, has all evening, voice soft with Steve like it never is. And no, he’s not gonna just, like, observe Billy from the doorway, ‘cause he’s not some kinda weirdo, watching drunk guys cozying it up on his couch, he doesn’t- it’s not something- he’s not doing anything, but Billy Hargrove always makes him feel like he is, all wrong footed and weird and like someone who’d call a guy angelic.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 23
Kudos: 197





	orange is loose and warm and ripples like juice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imyoursandthatsitwhatever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imyoursandthatsitwhatever/gifts).



> This started out as a “first hug” prompt, but it just spiraled into... this. 
> 
> For @imyoursandthatsitwhatever, my friend and inspiration :,)
> 
> i hope you all enjoy this!

He’s at a party. An actual sweaty, loud high school party. And that really shouldn’t be such a shocker, _king_ Steve finding himself at Cheryl’s or Tina’s or whoever’s got an empty home. But he’s _not_ king Steve, not anymore, he’s not even in high school. But he’s there, clutching a solo cup of lukewarm beer, the same one he grabbed in the kitchen when he first came. He feels out of place, feels dumb for feeling like that, ‘cause he should feel right at home. Should be able to pick up right where he left off. But he didn’t even wanna go. It was all thanks to Robin, who accused him of _crushing her highschooler dreams_ when he scrunched up his nose at the idea of hitting up the _biggest bash_ of the year.

She’s oddly at home, finds her people, guys with big glasses and girls with raccoon eyes, people he’d never seen at parties when he actually went to ‘em. She fits in, laughs and smiles and throws an arm in his direction where he’s standing against the wall like he didn’t run places like these, before. He never would’ve guessed that she’d enjoy it, figured it was some sorta ploy to get him out there. Feels like an asshole for making shit about him, again.

It feels too _loud_ , the synth music playing, the people shouting over it. It’s too overwhelming, too many flashing lights and sudden shouts of joy that morph into screams of agony no one could hear ‘cause they were a hundred feet down, _buried alive._ He survives for five songs, smiles at Robin, ignores the couple necking against the wall three feet away from him. He survives until someone finds some sorta party lights, bathes the room in blue, purple, red. _Like fireworks._

Stumbling outside feels like breaching the surface of a lake, taking a breath _finally_. The porch is empty, no lone smokers or couples petting heavy over each other. It’s a relief. Leaning against the railing, he wishes he had a smoke. Wishes he had a bit more backbone, said _no thanks_ to Robin, _yes please_ to the baggie of weed he has in the shoebox in his closet. He’s got a view of the forest, the same one he’s got behind his house. It’s always the same one. He should look away. Look away before shadows come to life, before they twist into shapes of monsters and flower petals. He doesn’t look away. Stares the mass of trees down until he goes a little crosseyed. Grips the cup in his hand so hard it crinkles, beer sloshing over the edge.

His staredown with his own fucked up head gets interrupted by someone opening the door, stepping outside. The someone stumbles, falls against the railing next to him.

“You came”, Billy Hargrove’s hammered, slurring his words, voice hoarse, fucked out. Steve hasn’t seen him since _that night_ , at the mall. He flinches away from that voice in a way that makes his insides burn. _You came_. Like Hargrove invited him. Like they’ve talked, like they’re _friends_. Like he didn’t beat Steve to the ground a year ago. Like Steve didn’t watch him _die_ not even six months ago.

He’s heard the story. Heard it from Max, the way the dying mindflayer was still in Hargrove’s system long enough to mend its own injuries, save his life from the way it ripped him open. A miracle. He can’t really look at him, doesn’t know where to look. His eyes betray him though, snap up to meet blue ones when Hargrove speaks again.

“Wasn’t sure you’d- you’d come. She said y’might, but- but I wasn’t sure”, and he’s _gone_ , talking like Steve has any idea who _she_ is, like Hargrove has _any_ right to be sure or not sure about anything when it comes to Steve.

He’s backing away, slowly. Leaves Billy hanging off the railing, stands a safe five feet away. Hates the way his brain registers the way Billy’s got a t-shirt underneath a flowy black shirt. Hates how he knows why, could eyeball where the scars are at their worst, if he wanted.

“Who’s _she_?”, and he doesn’t know why he indulges, why he doesn’t leave. He’s never been the best at quitting when he’s ahead.

“Yo- your Buck, _Buckley_. She said she’ll try t’ make you come. She owed me a- a favor”, and Steve feels drunk, even though it’s _Hargrove_ who’s slurring his words, voice all airy and leaning sideways. Eyes locked on him, face slack in a way Steve’s never seen it. He doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand why Hargrove even knows who Robin is, works his way halfway to a headache trying to figure it out.

“Uhm, okay”, and he draws it out, feels awkward, doesn’t know what to do with this Billy Hargrove. This docile, drunk off his ass Billy Hargrove.

“Wanted to- to _apologize_ , y’know? Thas’ why I- I needed you t’come.”, and Hargrove tries his best at standing straight, hand on the railing all too casual. His eyes are too clear, too damn blue, and Steve doesn’t look away. Can’t. Hates that he can’t. Wants to leave, find Robin and ask why the hell she’s talking to Hargrove, wants to know why she owes him. “‘M fucked up even more now. I- I’m a monster, a real one, now. But I- I need t’ let you know. That- that I’m sorry.”, and it shouldn’t mean shit, not when it’s coming outta Billy Hargrove’s mouth, not when every other word trails off into a hiccup. But it still makes his breath hitch. Makes his heart speed up in a way he hates, in a way he _doesn’t_ look too deep into.

“Yeah”, and he doesn’t know what he’s saying yeah to, doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know if he forgives him, if he trusts some drunk, _bullshit_ apology. If an apology is enough for the scar running down his temple, for the stitches Joyce gave him ‘cause they couldn’t go to the hospital, that night.

“I- I know you’re- that ‘m too drunk, r’now. But I’ll- I’ll say ‘t again, promise. At- at the video place, I’ll come and I’ll say it ‘gain so you’ll know. ‘Cause it’s true, I _swear_ -“, and Hargrove’s been moving closer with every word, stumbling over his own feet and his own words, eyes all big and intense, hands waving in the air. And he’s so close, and Steve stays, rooted in place, doesn’t move away. At _I swear,_ Billy trips, reaches for the railing right behind Steve to balance himself, falls into him. They’re chest to chest, Steve caged in, taking Hargroves weight. And he expects Hargrove to tense up, push away, throw up. Do _something_ , but not this. ‘Cause Billy Hargrove _melts_ , against him. Lets his head fall to Steve’s shoulder, nuzzles a little.

Steve feels like he’s having a damn heartattack, breaths all uneven as Billy’s hair tickles his neck. They’re practically hugging, _definitely_ hugging when a shaking hand finds Steve’s side instead of the railing, when Steve awkwardly pats a muscled shoulder.

“You’re warm”, _warm_ breath fans over his cheek, his jaw. He doesn’t know what’s _happening_ , has felt off kilter ever since he stepped foot on whoever’s lawn. Feels like he’s upside down, blood rushing in his ears.

“You’re drunk”, his words are too breathless, too awkward. He’s _dizzy_ , head spinning, brain too focused on the way he can feel the cool metal of Hargrove’s rings through the thin cotton of his shirt. “Let’s get you home”, and he doesn’t know when Hargrove became his responsibily, doesn’t know why he’s letting him hug him, rub his cheek over his shoulder like that. Doesn’t know anything. _Doesn’t_ think about how he maybe knows a little.

Billy lets himself be pushed back with two fingers on his chest, a parallel that cuts a little too deep. Lets himself be guided back inside, through masses of people. Grips Steves bicep in away thats too firm for how drunk he is. They find Robin in the kitchen, perched on the counter, laughing with some girl, hand on her shoulder. He feels a little proud, winks at her all subtle when she sees them. Sombers a little when he realizes that there _is_ a them, when her eyes flutter from him to Hargrove and back.

“He’s, uh, completely smashed. I’ll take him home, or something”, he starts, feels way too awkward. And Robins look is too knowing, smile way too fucking smug, as she answers after a too short second,

“I’ve got myself a ride home, you go”. And he needs to ask her about this, needs to know what the _fuck’s_ going on. Doesn’t think about everything he _does_ know, every thing he’s got locked away, those thoughts he’s decided to _never_ think again.

He ignores Hargrove’s attempt to wink, and the way he mouths something to Robs. Ignores Robins thumbs up even harder.

“So, uh, where’s your car parked?” He gets out when they’re out the door, swaying where they’re standing on the lawn. Doesn’t really know why he goes for the Camaro, first. Maybe ‘cause it’s a hell of a car, even if it’s too loud and too fast and belongs to a total _asshole_. His mind’s hyperfocused on the heat of Hargroves’s fingers curling around his arm.

“‘T’s not here, obvi- _obviously_ ”, and he doesn’t ask why it’s _obvious_ , just sighs, steers them towards where he parked, down the street.

Getting Hargrove into his car is surprisingly easy. Everything’s surprising about Hargrove, and Steve doesn’t know what to expect. It’s uncharted territory, what they’re doing. The way Billy’s sunken down into the passenger seat of his car, the way he _giggled_ at Steves, “throw up in my car and you’re dead”.

The first couple of minutes are silent, Steve desperately trying to grasp how this is his _life_ , Hargrove completely focused on the _millennium falcon_ swaying, tied to his rear view mirror.

“So, uh”, Steve starts up, begging Hargrove to say something, do something. “I’ll take ya home?”, and it’s a question, like Hargrove’s in shape to be anywhere but face down onto his bed, or crouched beside his toilet.

“Y’don’t know where I live”, and he knows Hargrove’s eyes are trained on him, can see his head turned in his peripheral vision. Keeps his eyes trained on the empty road.

“I’ve given Max a few rides, so I-“, and Hargrove cuts him off, voice sharp with a warning like it hasn’t been all night.

“I don’t live there, now”, and there’s something _there_ , something they shouldn’t talk about when Billy’s halfway unconscious in his car. He hates how he assumes that they’ll have a chance to talk about it sober. Shakes it off. Doesn’t _think_ about it.

“My place it is, then”, and he’s so _stupid_ , and it makes no sense that it’s the logical option, but Hargrove doesn’t protest, and Steve’s heart is pounding stupidly hard, lips twitching with _something_.

He lives close, could’ve walked if he didn’t pick up Robs. It only takes three, five minutes. A song and a half playing quiet on the radio.

It’s so stupid, the way he’s thrumming with something that _isn’t_ fear when he helps Hargrove outta the car, as he leans on him when Steve fumbles with his house keys.

“Just- sit down, and I’ll get you some water”, is all he says, waving towards the living room, ignores the way his heart does a loop in his chest when Hargrove toes off his shoes, lines them neatly to the wall in the hallway.

He heads to the kitchen to find the bottle of whiskey he left on the counter two nights ago, swallows down too much of it with one sip. How is this his _fucking_ life. Goes to grab a glass, fills it with water, downs it in one go. Fills it up again, all in a daze. ‘Cause it doesn’t make sense, ‘cause he’s entered some kinda twilight zone, apparently. ‘Cause he’s got _Billy Hargrove_ in his house, and he’s got a conversation that needs to be had with Robin and her too smug eyes.

He walks right into the kitchen table, spilling water all over, when he hears a too loud stage whisper of,

“ _Thank_ you, Robin”

 _Nothing_ makes sense, and Steve feels like he does when he takes one too many hits, right between hazy and outta his damn _mind_.

Billy Hargrove’s curled up on the couch, legs bent under him, head thrown back onto the soft pillows, curls splayed everywhere. He looks- _angelic_. Bathed in gold, all sharp angels even when he’s too drunk to function. And he has to take a moment, not to think about how his mind’s stuck on _Billy_ and _angel_ , but to catch his fucking breath. He hovers there until the glass in his hand starts to slip from the way his palms are sweating, until Billy opens one blue eye, stares at him all upside down.

“Y’just gonna stand there and stare?”, and he sounds out of it, has all evening, voice _soft_ with Steve like it never is. And _no_ , he’s not gonna just, like, _observe_ Billy from the doorway, ‘cause he’s not some kinda _weirdo_ , watching drunk guys cozying it up on his couch, he doesn’t- it’s not something- he’s not _doing_ anything, but Billy Hargrove always makes him feel like he is, all wrong footed and weird and like someone who’d call a guy _angelic_.

He makes a move for the other end of the couch, sits just close enough that he can feel the warmth of Billy’s legs. Maybe he’s just going insane. Billy has to heave himself up to reach the glass of water, gulps it down all loud, groans and lets water drip down his chin like a _slob._ It really shouldn’t make him shiver. He blames it on the way the glass wobbles when Hargrove puts it too close to the edge of the coffee table.

“Thank you”, and Billy Hargrove’s been saying shit that kinda makes Steve think he’s been body snatched, all _I’m sorry_ and _thank you_ and _you’re warm._ And he doesn’t know what to make of it, the way he’s seeing some kinda soft side of the total _asshole_ who kinda died to save them all, back then. Doesn’t know what to make of the way his heart’s kinda _racing_.

“It’s, um, it’s fine.”, and Billy’s mouthing the word _fine_ back at him, lips forming words and trailing off into one of those giggles. _What the fuck_. “You’re clearly like, fucked up, you’re gonna have to stay the night, okay?”

“Whatever you say, _king_ ” and the word’s funny enough for Billy to huff out a laugh, snort and lull his head to the side, like some sorta puppy. Steve never thought he’d compare Billy Hargrove to any animal other than like, a shark. “King Steve. Ste- _ve_. You’re the- the _bossman_ , _Steve_ ”, and it’s the first time he’s ever heard his name come outta those lips, and the second and third and _fourth_ , ‘cause Billy keeps going, _chanting_ his name, and he shuts down a very specific part of his brain. ‘Cause Billy’s _out_ of it, saying his name all- _shut up._

“Do you wanna like, conk out? I’ll get you a blanke-“, and he gets cut off by Billy’s feet nudging at his thigh. It’s the softest way Billy Hargrove’s ever touched him, aside from the hug Steve’s not even sure was _real_. Felt real enough, though. The way Billy was all warm, the rings on his fingers cold. Breath firehot against his cheek. Railing like ice against the small of his back.

“I’m not one of your kids, y’don’t haveta do that”, and Billy’s actually _pouting_ , lips all pink and pursed and- Steve only stares ‘cause it’s so fucking insane, _everything_ Billy’s been doing all night.

“You’re drunk off your ass, and probably high too, I’m gonna fucking baby you, cool?”, and the glare he gets feels like a ki- like a _smile_ , compared to the one’s he used to get back in December, January.

“Not _that_ drunk”, and Billy’s all grumbly, voice a rumble. Still pouting, crossing his arms, making his muscles bulge under that shirt. Steve doesn’t know why he keeps _looking_. “Put something on? Your TV’s like, bigger than my bed”, and Steve’s got a perfectly regular TV set, and he doubts Billy sleeps on a fuckin’ _dogbed_ , but it’s just one more _Billy Hargrove’s really fucking drunk_ tagline. He doesn’t think about all the shit his traitor... _brain_ came up with when it heard _Billy_ and _bed_.

He does put something on, zaps through the channels until something comes up. He can’t really focus on the screen, on the harsh colors and laughtrack. Kinda focuses on the way Billy laughs every time the laugh track doesn’t. Kinda singles in on how Billy’s shuffled closer, how their thighs are kinda touching.

And the couch is easy to sink into, and it’s easy to let his eyes close, eyelids heavy. It’s so easy to just slip away, noises fading with him.

-

It’s too bright. Like someone personally invited the fucking sun into his bedroom, like someone knocked his damn walls in, too _bright_. He sees red and orange from under his eyelids, and his neck hurts, his legs all cramped and still tucked into his _nice_ jeans. And he’s sweating too, too warm and all cramped and- _oh_. He’s not even in his bedroom, not tucked into bed. He’s half lying, half leaning on the couch, facing the TV they never turned off. He’s half lying, half leaning on _Billy Hargrove_. His face is kinda smushed against a too hot shoulder, blond curls tickling his temple. _Fuck_. He should move, get up and out before Billy wakes up with his lap full of Steve, before his body gets ideas it’s not allowed to have.

He doesn’t wanna, though. Has to fight the instinct to burrow his face deeper into Billy’s shoulder, his chest. He doesn’t. He lifts his head instead, cringes at the way his neck cricks. Pulls back, sits at the far end of the couch. Leaves his hand splayed out, fingers inches from Billy. He wonders if it’s weird to undo his belt, ‘cause his jeans are _tight_ , and sleeping in them definitely earned him red marks cutting into his hips and belly.

He doesn’t have to give himself the _you’re not a creep_ speech, ‘case there’s a snuffle next to him, a ruffle of clothes against suede. He doesn’t know why it’s so captivating, watching Hargrove wake up. Taking in the way he scrunches up his nose, eyes too, before blinking awake, taking in the way the room’s bathing in sunlight, clenching them shut again. The groan that leaves his throat is dramatic and gravely from sleep, all drawn out and totally _annoying_.

“Fuck”, and he’s not even sure Billy knows where he is, can picture the way his head must feel, splitting in half from too much booze and too much _light_.

It takes a minute or two for Billy to open his eyes again, and Steve kinda just stares at him, during those minutes. Drinks in the way he’s all rumpled and sleep soft, hair all fucked up, shirt and tee rucked up to show a sliver of used-to-be-golden skin. He opens them again, blue eyes flitting over everything, taking in the surroundings. Locking with Steve’s. And they’re all bloodshot and tired, but they’re so _damn_ blue, all electricity and living waters, and he kinda wants to laugh at himself, pretending to be all _poetic_ and shit. ‘Cause of Billy Hargrove’s _eyes_. And those eyes go from confused to realizing to some kinda big eyed surprise, and he kinda has to look up and sideways to meet Steve’s eyes, and his neck must be hurting more than his own, but he still does it. Still meets his eyes.

“Why… what- why’re you…?”, and Billy’s slowly pulling himself up, stretching, muscles pulled taught. And even if Billy had made any sense, Steve couldn’t have told him anything. ‘Cause his brain’s kinda _fried_ , from the sight of Billy Hargrove _stretching_ , all fuzzy and sleepy and hungover on his couch. What the _fuck_.

“You got really drunk last night, and I, I kinda made you stay the night”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ _got_ that”, and it’s jarring, the way he growls out the words, like he wasn’t _giggling_ on his fucking couch like six hours ago. And it would be more threatening if he couldn’t see red pillow creases on Billy’s cheek, if his hair wasn’t all fucked up. If his nose still wasn’t scrunched up, eyes squinting like that’d actually help keep the sun out. Steve should probably pull the curtains, save Hargrove and save his carpet from said Hargrove barfing all over it. But Billy’s being a total _dick_ , and he doesn't really feel like moving. He’s close enough to see the freckles dusting his cheekbone.

“You, uh, you said some stuff? I mean, you were pretty out of it, but-“, and _that_ gets Billy going, makes him still, eyes big, mouth hanging open, just a little.

“What’d I say?”, the way he gets it out, all breathless but still with his voice all deep, makes Steve think there’s something more than what he heard. Makes his insides tingle, brain working too fast trying to figure out what Billy Hargrove doesn’t want him to know. Ignores the hope burning in his stomach like he just downed gasoline.

“Oh, y’know, just some stuff”, and he’s being a dick about it, has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling. Messing with Billy Hargrove like that’s something they _do_ , lounging in Steve’s living room, hungover and messing with each other and _vulnerable_.

“Harrington, what the _fuck_ did I say?”, and maybe if Steve cared just _that_ much more about his health and face, he’d shut up, let it go. Yeah, he _really_ doesn’t care.

“Well, not _Harrington_ , that’s for sure”, he’s talking all teasing, and Billy looks like he might actually throw chunks all over the cream of the couch, breathing all loud.

“I’m not messing around, whatever you think you’re doing-“, and Billy’s shifting, staring him right down, and it should make him feel cornered, should make him shut the fuck up. But the way Billy said his _name_ was still running in his head, on repeat. He feels fucking delirious with it.

“Jesus, relax, you didn’t say shit. Robin might though, if I asked her, since you’re all _cozy_ ”, Billy looks greener with every word, eyes all blue and _big_ and jumping from Steve to the empty space between them to the windows.

“Fuck”, and it’s small, not for him, all defeated and raggedy and paired with too much air being sucked into lungs that were pierced by a _monster_ last summer. “I told her it was a bad idea. I fuckin’ _told_ her”, and it makes him loose his footing, ‘cause maybe he crossed some sorta line they blew to bits the first day Billy Hargrove stepped foot in Hawkins. Maybe there’s _stuff_ there, stuff Steve’s not supposed to see. Stuff Steve _doesn’t_ think about at three am, waking up panting and shaking and not ‘cause of the _fucked up sideways upside-down,_ for once.

“Hey-“, but Billy’s talking, words spilling lightning speed fast. More than Steve’s _ever_ heard him talk.

“You figured it out. She _told_ me you wouldn’t, not like this, but you did, right? You proud of yourself? Figured it _all_ out. Still let me sleep on your couch. That some sorta test? A game? _King Steve_ , letting the _fag_ stay the night, ‘cause it’s just more fun to tell ‘im when he’s sober. Gonna _tell_ me now, huh? Call me _names_?” And he’s not _breathing_ , saying shit that’s not makin’ any _sense_. The hope burning in his belly’s setting him on _fire_ , lighting up every nerve. His heart.

“Billy-“

“I shouldn’t have- shouldn’t have let you- Jesus, so fuckin’ _stupid_ -“

“ _Billy_ ”, and he’s not- he’s not thinking, doesn’t think when he moves, launches himself at Billy, grabs for him. Gets one hand curled around a bicep, the other one cradling that too tense jaw. He _kisses_ him. Kisses him like the fire’s been urging him to. Thinks about all that shit he has filed away in _do not think!,_ thinks about how many times he’s woken up aching for blue eyes and red lips and this. He lands off kilter, more on his lower jaw, his chin.

It makes him still. Makes Billy freeze, still all tense, coiled up. Worked up about shit Steve’s been too busy _not thinking about_ to notice. And for a second, one terrifying, weightless second before the _drop_ , he thinks he’s got it wrong. Thinks about how he just kissed a _boy_. Kissed _the_ boy. The one who beat his face in a Halloween ago. The one who saved his _life_ , forced to take so many others. The one who _apologized_ to him, last night. Apolozised and _touched_ him and called him _Steve_ and called himself a _fag_ , just now.

Billy kisses him right back. Angles his head, meets his lips in an _actual_ kiss. It’s too soft. Too slow for the way Billy was talking all _fast_ , just now. Too slow for the way Steve’s leaning on him all heavy, curling himself into Billy Hargrove like he has _any_ right to.

“Wha-“, and Billy’s gonna start talking again, but Steve shuts him off. Presses another kiss onto his lips. Just ‘cause he can. ‘Cause he’s running on some sorta high, shoves all thoughts of _what the fuck_ into the fucking trunk. Kisses Billy Hargrove, thumbing over his cheekbones.

And it tastes kinda gross, stale booze and nicotine and sleep. He never wants to stop. Doesn’t look to much into that thought. “I’d, uh, stay like this, but your breath kinda stinks, man”

Billy doesn’t really give him an answer, looks kinda fucking _shellshocked_ , blue eyes staring up at him, all big and kinda wet and kinda unbelieving. _I want to fucking kiss you_. He has to shake his head a little, clear his throat before saying, “I’m sure you’ve got a toothbrush somewhere in this big house of yours”, and he sounds- hungover as hell, voice all wrecked and fucked up and it shouldn’t be- shouldn’t be fucking _sexy_. Nothing about this should make his heart race. He feels like he’s gonna shake outta his skin.

“Yeah. Uhm. _Yeah_ ”, and he feels so _stupid_ , like the sense he had just up and left, left him there, halfway in Billy Hargrove’s _lap_.

“Yeah?”, and Billy kinda smiles, then, all dimpled and real in a way Steve’s never seen before. It makes his fuckin’ _knees_ weak, and they need to _talk_ about this, talk about what Billy said and what the fuck it means. They need to talk about _Robin_ and her thumbs up and winks and dumb, allknowing eyes.

But it doesn’t really matter, when Steve pulls Billy up from the couch, laughing at his groans and moans and _fuck, my head_ ’s. When they trip over themselves up the stairs, into the bathroom attached to Steve’s bedroom. Billy switches the lights off with too fast reflexes, glares at Steve all threatening like he doesn’t have toothpaste foam all around his mouth. And he’s using Steve’s toothbrush, which is totally _gross_. It still makes his heart flip, though. He gurgles some mouthwash, dodges Billy’s move to elbow his stomach as he throws his head back, sloshes it ‘round in his mouth.

“Fuck, I’m gonna fuckin’ barf”, Billy’s got his head leaned against the mirror over the sink, cheek all smushed against it, one hand casually twisted in the hem of Steve’s shirt. Like that doesn’t set _everything_ off inside a’ him. Billy doesn’t barf, just continues bitching like some overdramatic fucker. Keeps close to Steve the entire time.

“I just wanna like, sleep for a week”, and he says it right into the crook of his neck, ‘cause Billy Hargroves _hugging_ him in his bathroom, arms wrapped around him tight. Like that something they _do_. Maybe it could be. And Steve has no idea _what_ they’re doing, knows some kinda _floodgate_ opened, all those locked away thoughts coming right back to him. Doesn’t know what this makes him, what it makes them. Knows something _clicked_ , inside a’ him, when he _kissed_ Billy Hargrove.

“I mean, I’ve got a _really_ nice bed right there”, and it’s something more, more than just passing out together. More than- than sleeping, _fucking_. More than _anything_.

“Yeah?”, and he’s asking a question Steve doesn’t know the answer to, not with words. _Kisses_ him, instead. Tastes mint and warmth and spit, ‘cause Billy makes it all sloppy. Messy, slick. _Indulgent_.

And Billy’s all pliant, holds Steve’s _hand_ when he leads him to his bed, stops to slam the lights off, the lights that are _always_ on in his bedroom, now. And he feels _shy_ , now. ‘Cause his whole damn world kinda tipped sideways, and he’s _scarily_ fine with that. He doesn’t know what to do, but _Billy_ does, comes all close and kisses him, slow and dewy and- soft. So _soft_ , hands ever-shaking when they come up to touch his face, carding through his hair.

“Come on, take your pants off, they’re too damn tight”, and they’re so close his lips brush Billy’s with every word. It’s not close enough.

“Tryin’ to get into my pants, _Steve_?”, and it makes his head reel, the _Steve_. The way those lips form his name like they’ve never done before last night.

“Just makin’ sure you don’t cream them”, and it makes Billy pull back, just a little. Makes him laugh all unbelievingly, tugging at Steve’s hair a little. _Revenge_ , maybe. Still makes him shiver. He pulls away with a _bastard_ , shuffles outta his jeans, shrugs off the button down. Keeps his tee on, a little loose around his mid, still so tight around his arms. He’s wringing his hands together, looks all shy, cheeks red with a blush Steve wants to fucking _lick_. And he hops outta his own pants, wiggles out of his shirt too. Feels kinda weird, standing in his boxers in front of _Billy Hargrove_. Feels weird until he _doesn’t_ , until Billy steps _close_ again, hands traveling up his sides, through the thatch of chesthair growing too fast, down his back. All slow, _sure_. Like he’s taking him all in, _savoring_ it.

“I- I never thought I’d get this”, and it’s a confession, something _raw_ , all hidden in the rippling, liquid gold of Billy’s voice.

“You have this, baby”, and the _baby_ kinda slips out, makes his ears burn red hot, mouth clicking shut. Ignores the way he wants to say, _you have me._

“ _Baby_? What, am I your girl?”, and it’s teasing, said with a grin, but there’s something _there_ , something in those eyes that makes him throw all cation and security and _sense_ out the window and say,

“Not my _girl_ , no. But, you- you could be mine?”, and Billy’s grin winds down, becomes something _softer_. And he dips his head, takes Steve’s hand. Plays with his fingers, curls them around his own. His heart’s gonna _explode_ , right with his brain and his stomach overfilled with butterflies.

“I- I, uh, I like the sound of that” and his knees are gonna give out, he’s gonna fall right onto the damn floor, if Billy continues being fucking soft in a way he _never_ \- “ _baby_ ”. He tackles Billy onto the damn bed.

And they kinda just stay a heap on top of the covers, all curled up into each other, Billy’s head heavy on his stomach, Steve’s leg thrown over his side. They stay like that until Billy starts whining again, like he didn’t choose to raid the entire supply at that stupid, _blessed_ , dumb party. And Steve gets them both under the covers, tucks Billy in up to his ears, smiles all too bright when Billy snarls a little. Lets his hand be taken, lets Billy shove it against is forehead like that’s gonna make his stupid hangover headache disappear. Steve’s so fucking _gone_ , and it’s terrifying, how _easy_ it is. How easy it is to allow all those thoughts to _exist_ , to unlock the door.

And he should let Billy sleep, sleep off the staleness of the party and _everything_. Should sleep so they can wake up and _talk_ about this, for real. Really fucking talk, about what Billy said and what he’s _done_ and what the fuck Robin Buckley has to do with any of it. He can’t help it though, the way he traces the slope of Billy’s jaw with a finger, says,

“Y’know, you did say one thing, last night.”, and it makes Billy snuffle, a little. Makes him open one eye to stare at him, all soft, and oh _fuck_ , Steve’s fucking _falling_ , and-

“Oh yeah?”, and he’s so tired, half asleep even though he got more sleep last night than he got all week. Even though his heart’s racing two hundred miles an hour.

“Uhuh. You kinda promised you stop by Family Video, like, _every_ day. To make me believe it. That you’re sorry, and all”, and Billy’s laughing, all tired and into Steve’s pillow, hand coming up to play at Steve’s shoulder, fingers walking their way up to his neck, his cheek. His brow, the scar there.

“I promised, huh?”, and the tilt of his lips feels like home, even though he never allowed himself to look, before now. Wasn’t allowed. Still isn’t, but who _gives_ a fuck, when Billy’s eyes are trained on his own lips, just the same?

“Yeah. And you seem like a man of your word, y’know?”, and his own hand is still moving, touching his jaw, the curve of his nose. Smiles when it scrunches up like that, Billy huffing a laugh. _Ticklish_.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to do that then”, and it’s something _else_ , something _more_ , the way he says it. All soft and real and hidden under the covers, the sun making everything orange and soft and _warm_ even though the curtains are drawn.

“Every day?”, and it feels like they’re saying so much _more_ , like they’re not talking about Family Video or promises or _anything_. They’re talking about everything. It’s _everything_ , the way Billy looks at him, smiles like that. Shuffles deeper into Steve’s pillow like he _belongs_ there. Maybe he could. Maybe he could belong there, maybe he’d never leave, just stay, stay with _Steve_ , every day, and it’s too _much_ , too soon, too _nothing_. It’s,

“ _Yeah_ ”, it’s _so_ much more.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr @awickedplacethisis and we can be friends!


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